


Solace

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Comforting Bedelia, F/M, Hugging, Misha Feels, Therapy Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 23:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17887535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “Is everything alright, Hannibal?” she interrupts him, not a polite thing to do, but she no longer can suppress the nagging question, fuelled by the odd worry settling in her mind.“I apologise if I sound distracted,” he is on his best manners, straightening his posture instantly, “I had trouble sleeping.”





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Bedelia hugs Hannibal after session as a way of comforting him.

It is the most unusual of sights and it leaves her confused in more than one way. Bedelia’s eyes narrow as she scrutinises the view presented before her. She wonders if anyone else would have noticed it; after all, she is attuned to even the slightest change in her patient’s behaviour. Or appearance.

As her mind contemplates, she listens to Hannibal retelling the events of his week, the typical string of occurrences, not indicating anything out of the unusual happening. But his façade does. His attire remains impeccable, but the dark contours beneath his eyes betray weariness. He strives to maintain his habitual air of composure, but she can see it crumbling ever so slightly. The twitch in the corner of his lips matches the tiredness in his eyes as he searches for the next turn of phrase, his normally exceptional flow of thoughts failing him unexpectedly.

It is more than just an opening in his person suit, already unbuttoned and hanging loose for her to adjust, but a tear in its very underlining, a strange and raw laceration she has never seen before. She considers a possibility of a premeditated reveal, a prompt for her to peak beneath the parting. Yet, his words say otherwise, as he continues to go into particulars of re-shelving his office. She is certain it is not a reason behind his tired state. The narrative is excessively detailed as though he is hiding his own thoughts behind the continuous sound of his voice, afraid of what he might heard if he felt silent.

His eyes dart aside as if he were having trouble focusing on the present moment and Bedelia feels a sharp pang in her heart. It is normal, she tells herself, having compassion for her patient. She tries to quiet its beat together with the nagging fact that no other patient has ever made her feel like that.

Hannibal pauses and looks back at her with a gentle smile passing through his lips; it looks so simple and timid, causing another jab in her chest. Bedelia presses her lips, hiding a small quiver in the corner on her mouth. His words resume, but she does not pay attention to them anymore.

“Is everything alright, Hannibal?” she interrupts him, not a polite thing to do, but she no longer can suppress the nagging question, fuelled by the odd worry settling in her mind.

“I apologise if I sound distracted,” he is on his best manners, straightening his posture instantly, “I had trouble sleeping.” He offers no more, but the outlines under his eyes appear hollower somehow.

“Would you like to talk about it?” she prompts his gently, the striking softness in her voice taking her by surprise.

Hannibal reflects on her question; she can see the conflict taking place in his mind. She does not press him further.

“I had dreams about my sister,” he says eventually, his voice so quiet she can barely hear him. Bedelia almost holds her breath, not wanting to intrude on his words in any way.

“The dream is always the same. My sister calling my name from a distance, but I am unable to move, standing in the middle of the winter-stricken garden, my feet as though frozen to the ground, my own voice gone, the warm tears streaming down my face, melding with the cold of the falling snowflakes.”

Bedelia can see him so clearly, a boy desperate to come to his sister’s aid. It feels like the room has suddenly gone colder, the winter in his heart edging outwards.

“The dreams were constant when I was younger. The screams still clutching at my throat when I woke up,” he looks at his hands as if expecting them to shake then presses the palms against his lap, “But they have almost disappeared by now.”

He looks at her with a grateful smile, an incline of his head indicating it is because of her. Sudden warmth joins the cluster of confusing feelings gathering in her heart.

“But they return occasionally, around this time of year,” he pauses, “Her birthday.”

The lines of his face turn sharper, the echoes of his old grief imprinted on his skin. His voice catches in his throat as the emotions take over him and he briefly closes his eyes as though being on a brink of crying. She had seen his fake mourning before, when he was trying sadness up for size, a practice run before he presented his solemn visage to the outside word, but this is different. The tears pool in his eyes, brimming with a lustre shine, uncertain where to go next. He finally blinks, sending them flowing down his cheeks, bewildered streams rushing to an unknown end. The sight leaves her without proper words, the strange sensation in her chest now seizing her throat.

“She would have been a beautiful woman,” he continues, swallowing a sob. A wistful smile surfaces on his lips as the words take shape in rooms of his mind, a vision he alone can see and admire.

Bedelia merely nods, a practised therapy gesture, but she does not comment. She has reflected on his relationship with his sister on many occasions; it would not be nearly as perfect as he imagines. But she does shatter his ideal perspective in this moment, still taken by the raw emotions twisting his visage.

The sun begins to set in the garden behind them, long shadows stretching across the floor between them, like ghosts of his shattered life, trying to grasp him anew. Bedelia allows him to linger over the images of the past and never to be future, coloured with all the shades of rosy nostalgia by his grieving mind. His thoughts slowly return to the present moment; she can see him making a conscious effort to push the sadness away. It pains her to see him that way, even if she does not let herself understand why. She wishes she could take his sorrow away, an unforeseen notion.

The hour passes, but it’s marked by nothing but the silence between them. Bedelia cannot bring herself to say the usual words announcing the end of their session, so she settles for standing up instead. Hannibal’s heads lifts, yet he stays seated. She knows she has done all that she can, but it does not feel enough.

“Red or white?” she asks passing by his chair, then stops, her eyes falling on her patient afresh.

He looks up at her, still vulnerable and bare. The remnants of tears still cling to his cheeks, dried streaks delineating his face, but the shadows are retreating, the colour slowly returning to his skin, as if the burden of his melancholy has been lifted from his heart for now.

It captivates her to see him this way. Her hand reaches out and rests on his shoulder, a gesture that surprises her more than him. Hannibal smiles slightly, continuing to gaze at her, leaving her own heart tender as well. Before her mind can rationalise what is happening, she places her other hand on his other shoulder and pulls his closer. He does not startle, as her arms embrace his back, then wraps his arms around her waist in turn. She allows his head rests on her torso as she holds him close. Her heart thumps, loud in her ears. This should feel out of place, but it does not. Bedelia strokes his hair once, almost absentmindedly, marvelling on how effortless the gesture seems. She senses the tension slowly leaving his shoulders as if the substance of his demons have been exorcised through her touch. The warmth of his body is noticeable even through the layers of wool and cotton, but he seems to be basking in hers instead. Suddenly, she imagines them embracing in another time and under different circumstances. She swallows her feelings, attempting to silence the inexplicable thoughts. Her behaviour is anything but professional, but she does not want to let him go, not yet, while the storm in her mind flashes with vigour. Luckily, Hannibal makes it easy for her by lifting his head and slowly unravelling himself from her comfort.

She expects to see his veil pulled up anew, but he remains unshielded, his heart wide open in tandem with his eyes, now shining with something akin to hope. It startles her again. She is here to understand and help him to do the same; she has never expected to be capable of offering solace.

“White, if you don’t mind,” he says, adjusting his jacket, leaving her nothing to do but to make her way to the kitchen.

Bedelia smiles to herself as she exits the office. She has learned something new about her patient today, but about herself as well. The chance knowledge leaves her hungry for more.

While focusing on the rip in his veil, she is yet to notice an opening in her own armour.


End file.
